


oops!...i did it again

by caramelle



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Roommates, i don't even know what, i thought of this in the shower so, make of that what you will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-06-06 18:41:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6765466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelle/pseuds/caramelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brows furrowing, Bellamy swipes across the screen to open the messages, already bringing up his other hand so he’ll have two thumbs to type out a disgruntled reply when— </p><p>Oh. </p><p>Okay. </p><p>Yep.</p><p>That is… <i>definitely</i> a picture of Clarke’s boobs.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Or, the one where Clarke accidentally sends Bellamy topless pictures when drunk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	oops!...i did it again

**Author's Note:**

> in light of this week's quieter ep, here's a little something to treat myself and, hopefully, you too.
> 
>  
> 
> (title from the actual Britney Spears song because i have officially completed my transition to trash.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bellamy’s phone buzzes just as he reaches his apartment door, and he ignores it resolutely in favour of diverting his last shreds of energy towards vaguely stabbing his key at its corresponding hole. Knowing Murphy, it’s probably a badly timed message about how he’ll need to switch his shift tomorrow, for the third time this month.

 

Another ‘ding’ sounds right as he closes the door behind him, with a third one following soon after before he can even get his shoes off.

 

Sighing resignedly, he pulls his phone out of his jeans pocket and squints at it, frowning at the name splashed across the too bright screen.

 

 

Princess: **hey wyd ;)**

 

Princess: **i may or may not be a little drunk rn**

_Princess sent you an image_

 

 

He glances at the time. It’s nearly three in the morning. Since when does Clarke text him at three in the morning? Since when does Clarke text him _winking smileys_? Since when does Clarke text him while _drunk_?!

 

Brows furrowing, he swipes across the screen to open the messages, already bringing up his other hand so he’ll have two thumbs to type out a disgruntled reply when—

 

Oh.

 

Okay.

 

Yep.

 

That is… _definitely_ a picture of Clarke’s boobs encased in a lacy blue bra.

 

_Um._

 

His mind automatically flips to a channel that’s basically all static. He thinks his whole body has frozen solid — until his nose suddenly bumps against the hard glass of his phone screen.

 

He instantly blinks and jerks his head backward, hand outstretched to put as much space between his face and his phone as possible.

 

He waits for his phone to buzz again, for her to realise her mistake and send an appropriately panicked _‘oh shit sorry’_ message.

 

Nothing happens.

 

He suddenly rushes to exit the conversation page, staring at his _very_ inactive text inbox for a few long moments.

 

… Still nothing.

 

He takes a deep breath, and lets it out as slowly as he can manage.

 

He lets another full minute pass by, standing motionless in the hallway.

 

Finally, he shakes his head, and trudges into his room, commanding his brain to erase all mental images of what he’s just seen.

 

As it turns out, commands to the brain don’t hold up that well once one slips into slumber.

 

 

 

 

“ _What_ ,” Clarke bites out for the third time, glaring at him over her cereal bowl.

 

“You _really_ didn’t do anything after coming home last night?” he asks for the third time, slightly insistently this time.

 

She rolls her eyes, dropping her spoon back into her bowl. “Jesus _Christ_ , Bellamy. For the last time, I was in my room, _asleep_ , okay?” Her gaze narrows suspiciously on him. “Is this about Octavia drinking again? She’s _twenty-two_ , Bellamy. She’s allowed to have a drink without her brother being a crabby grump about it.”

 

“I didn’t say I minded O having a drink,” he says carefully. Although he still kind of _does_ mind, if he’s being honest. Then again, his sister seems to be doing better than Clarke after a few rounds of alcohol — for one, it’s only ten A.M. and she’s already at the gym, apparently completely hangover-free.

 

“Well then, why the hell are you on my ass about this?” Clarke grumbles, pushing her empty bowl away.

 

Great, now he has to stop himself from thinking about _that_ part of her, too.

 

He clears his throat, and stands from the table, one hand reaching out to take her bowl to the sink with his own. “You might want to check your texts from last night.”

 

“What? Why—” Clarke cuts herself off in favour of scrambling for her phone. There’s a brief silence while he places their dishes in the sink, before— “Oh. _Fuck_.”

 

“Yep, that just about sums up what you probably had in mind,” he says, voice strained with both embarrassment and barely restrained amusement as he turns to face her.

 

She’s staring at her phone, her mouth hanging open, but it snaps shut at his quip, her narrowed gaze flying to his. “Shut up. This _obviously_ wasn’t meant for _you_ ,” she retorts, waving the device at him accusingly.

 

“Glad that’s cleared up,” he counters dryly, raising a sardonic brow. “For a moment there, I was all worried about how to let you down gently. Had a speech prepared and everything.”

 

“Sorry to steal your spotlight,” she returns with a roll of her eyes. “I’ll make sure to leave you a minute or two for that speech the next time.” She stands, humming in feigned consideration as she moves past him to get to the coffee machine. “Which will be, oh, let me see — _never_.”

 

“Pity,” he muses, folding his arms over his chest. Out of the corner of his eye, he can just about make out the way she stiffens and whips her head round to stare at him. “It _was_ a pretty nice way to end off a completely shit day.”

 

She scoffs, but it’s a beat late. “Loser.”

 

It’s half-hearted at best, and they both know it.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

**hey :) how you doin?**

_[1 image attached]_

**Great, but I think blue’s**

**more your color, princess.**

**the fuck**

**shit**

**goddammit**

**WRONG PERSON**

**again, nOT FOR YOU BELLAMY**

**Hey, I can work with purple too.**

**jesus**

 

 

 

“Out of curiosity,” Bellamy starts conversationally, prodding experimentally at the slabs of chicken breast on the frying pan. “Who are all these saucy selfies actually meant for, anyway?”

 

Clarke yanks open the fridge door and pulls out two beers. “You did _not_ just say the phrase ‘saucy selfies’.”

 

“If the bra fits,” he says with a smirk, grabbing hold of the bottle she shoves at him just in time. “Which it most certainly does very well, I must say.”

 

She punches him in the arm before moving around him to check on the boiling pasta noodles. “I met this girl a couple weeks ago in a bar. Niylah. We… hooked up.” She sniffs, turning the flame off. “Nothing serious or anything. Just sex.”

 

“Truly the stuff of fairytales,” he says, passing her a colander.

 

She elbows him sharply as she takes it. “It was just that one time. Like I said, it was a while ago. So last week, when Octavia and I got home from drinks, I was, uh… well, I was—“

 

“Drunk and horny,” he supplies helpfully, uncapping a bottle of olive oil.

 

“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” she deadpans, her cheeks flushing visibly. Thankfully, her hands are too full with draining the pasta to deliver another deserved punch to his arm.

 

He makes a cheeky, two-fingered salute before drizzling more oil over the chicken. “At least you didn’t inflict some serious, lasting damage. Imagine if you’d sent it to Jasper instead.”

 

“No, thank you,” she says tightly, turning the tap on to run water through the empty pot. “The fact that I’ve done it to you _twice_ now is terrible enough.”

 

“Relax, princess,” he says, flipping the chicken slabs one by one with one hand and adjusting the heat with the other. “I’m your roommate. It’s kind of impossible to live under the same roof _and_ keep up good impressions.”

 

She snorts, taking a swig of her beer. “Yeah, because we’re _such_ good friends to begin with.”

 

He grins, pointing his own bottle in her direction. “ _Exactly_. See? No harm done.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

At least, ‘harm’ isn’t the right word for it, anyway.

 

He actually groans out loud at this one — she’s got some maroon-ish lacy thing on now, and she’s clearly lying back on her bed, chest arched up, blonde waves fanned out on the sheets. This time, she’s holding the camera far away enough that the bottom half of her face is actually in the shot, her bottom lip somehow pouting _and_ caught under her teeth at the same time. He can’t help but notice that the outstretched position of her arms pushes her breasts up pretty fucking fantastically, the creamy flesh threatening to spill over the delicate edges of its wine-coloured prison. He has to _physically bend over_ , his hand unintentionally reaching out to brace on the counter as he exhales laboriously through his teeth.

 

“That’s the bathrooms done, so I’m just gonna—”

 

Bellamy jerks upright and looks up to see Murphy halfway across the empty bar, peeling off the disposable rubber gloves they use to clean the toilets with a heavily arched brow directed his way.

 

“Everything… okay?” his co-worker asks, starting questioningly towards him.

 

“Yes!” he half-shouts, holding a hand out. He really, _really_ doesn’t want Murphy coming anywhere close enough to notice what a _hard_ time he’s having with regaining his composure right now. He inhales sharply, raking a hand through his hair. “Uh— yeah, you should take off now. I’ll take care of everything else, don’t worry about it.”

 

Murphy regards him silently, clearly not buying his sudden façade of compassion. Nevertheless, he shrugs. “Okay. See you tomorrow,” he calls over his shoulder, already heading for the back room to get his bag.

 

Bellamy nods and waves as Murphy emerges and crosses the bar to get to the exit, letting all the bated breath whoosh out of him in one long sigh of relief once the other man disappears.

 

Fuck.

 

Maybe it’s time for him to talk to Clarke about it seriously. Or maybe he should just hide all the alcohol in the apartment. Steal her ID so she can’t buy drinks in public. Delete his number from her phone so she stops accidentally tapping on his name in her inbox — it’s not his fault he’s always somewhere near the top, okay? That’s what happens when three people share an apartment and no one ever remembers to pick up toilet paper, or bread, or Post-It's. (They go through Post-It's at an unusually high rate. Or so Octavia tells them.)

 

Or maybe he should just sit her down and solemnly tell her to forget this Niylah chick and — well, fuck him.

 

… _Fuck_ him.

 

Shit. Shit, shit, _shit_.

 

He’s not an idiot. He knows Clarke is, objectively speaking, any and probably all of the following: pretty, hot, attractive, hot, gorgeous, sexy, beautiful, good-looking, hot et cetera.

 

(Also, did he mention ‘hot’? Because, yeah, that’s important.)

 

Despite all of the above, he’s been a _little_ too preoccupied with having a never-ending quarrel with her about literally everything over the last four years to really stop and think about whether he actually wants to _do_ anything about it.

 

But now, having seen her practically topless not once, not twice, but _three_ times? He’s thinking he might actually _want_ to do something about it.

 

He shakes his head, the motion deliberately sharper than usual. He’s just tired out from another eight-hour shift. He’s just sick of dealing with pushy, self-righteous customers who never, ever tip decently.

 

He doesn’t _actually_ want to fuck his beautiful, smart, objectively hot roommate.

 

Of _course_ not.

 

 

 

 

 

“Hey,” Clarke yawns as she pads into the kitchen, scratching at her head of rumpled blonde waves. “Octavia went home with Lincoln.”

 

“Yeah, she texted me,” he replies, scrolling through the _Times_ on his laptop. “Picked up more bread, by the way.”

 

She groans dramatically in gratitude, already reaching for the bag. “ _Salvation_.”

 

“Speaking of,” he begins casually, eyes firmly fixed on his laptop. “Did you know there are apps that let you get completely shit-faced while stopping you from fucking up your life?”

 

She sticks two slices of wholegrain bread into the toaster, reaching for a clean mug as she glances over her shoulder at him. “What?”

 

He turns his laptop screen towards her, sitting up slightly. “See, this one helps you find a safe ride home for the night. This one lets you track your friends in case you get split up at a party, and this one lets you block social media apps or selected contacts for a few hours. You know, so you can’t drunk dial or text anyone.” He clears his throat. “While you’re, you know. Drunk.”

 

She turns to face him, a full mug of coffee in hand and one brow fully arched. “Really.”

 

“There’s also one that calculates whatever you’re drinking and tells you how drunk you are,” he barrels on, drumming his fingers on the table. “But that just sounds kind of stupid because, well, when you think about it, if you’re sober enough to keep track of percentages and shit then, well, how drunk can you _be_ , right?”

 

“Bellamy,” she says calmly, her expression perfectly neutral. “Did I happen to send you another, quote, ‘saucy selfie’ last night?”

 

He presses his lips together before answering. “You did.”

 

She nods placidly, taking a sip of coffee. “… Fuck.”

 

The kitchen is silent for a moment, with only the ticking of the toaster and the faint aroma of toasted bread between them.

 

Suddenly, she sighs. “Look, Bellamy,” she says, setting aside her coffee mug. “I’m really sorry about it. I’m fully aware that the last thing you need after a crappy shift at that crappy bar is a crappy picture of me half-wasted, half-naked, and probably looking one hundred percent ridiculous as hell. I’ll try to—”

 

“Actually,” he cuts in wryly, looking anywhere but her, “the only _real_ problem I’m having here is that I don’t think they’re crappy at all. The pictures, I mean.”

 

The bread pops out of the toaster with a very inappropriately cheerful ‘ding’.

 

“You don’t,” she repeats, staring at him.

 

He shrugs, standing to take his empty coffee cup to the sink. “Like I said — it’s a nice way to end off a shit day. I’m starting to think I might even have a thing for drunk you. It’s… kind of funny.”

 

“Drunk me,” she repeats, still staring at him.

 

“Horny you’s pretty great, too,” he says, turning off the tap and reaching for a dishtowel to dry his hands on. “Might have a thing for that.” He finally turns to face her, gaping soundlessly up at him as he leans his hip against the counter. “ _Definitely_ have a thing for, well. You. In general.”

 

She blinks at him. Beside her, two slices of bread are still sticking out of the toaster, completely ignored.

 

“Fucking hell,” she says, starting forward purposefully, and suddenly he’s got his arms full of Clarke, his lips fused to hers as she steps closer and presses into him, her hands on the sides of his face.

 

“Wait,” he gasps when she finally pulls back, his cock stirring in his pants at the sight of her swollen lips and flushed cheeks, hair still a delicious mess from hours of sleep. “Is this happening?”

 

She rolls her eyes, winding her arms around his neck. “It would’ve been _happening_ last night, if you knew how to take a goddamn hint.”

 

His hands tighten on her hips. “Say what?”

 

She raises a disbelieving brow at him, her lips already curling into a smile. “Seriously, Bellamy? Octavia went home with Lincoln. I was home by eleven.” Her smile breaks into full-fledged grin status. “There wasn’t even any drunk message to go with the picture!”

 

His jaw drops. “You sent me a topless picture _on purpose_? Holy sh—”

 

The rest of his exclamation is cut off by the eager press of her mouth to his. He responds immediately, arms tightening all the way around her waist to draw her flush against him, the fingers of his right hand sneaking under the hem of her tank top to fan out over the bare skin of her lower back.

 

When they finally break apart again, he suddenly frowns.

 

“Hang on,” he says, hands stilling on her waist. “You sent me that photo at, like, two A.M.”

 

She rakes her fingers teasingly through the curls on the back of his head, the corners of her mouth pulling up. “Uh huh?”

 

“But you said you were home at eleven.” His brows knit together as he looks down at her. “What were you doing for three hours?”

 

She hums in a sudden fit of mocking thoughtfulness. “Well, I could tell you. Or… we could go to my room, and I could _show_ you.”

 

“Second one, please,” he instantly says, turning her towards her room with both hands as she laughs. “Definitely the second one.”

 

“You’re very lucky I have a thing for horny you as well,” she informs him as he all but carries her down the hall, yelping at the affectionate slap he lands on her ass.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> SERIOUSLY HOW DOES ANYONE MAKE IT THROUGH MY BELLARKE NONSENSE. it's truly astounding, it is. 
> 
> as always, kudos are very much appreciated, and comments are my JAM. absolutely love hearing from you, it seriously makes my day!
> 
> i'm also on [tumblr!](http://caramellakers.tumblr.com/) come say hi or just yell at me about literally anything bellarke, i am down to flail 'round whenever, wherever.


End file.
